


Queen of Spies

by SusanMM



Category: Airwolf, She Spies, The Quest (TV 1982)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Espionage, Gen, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanMM/pseuds/SusanMM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The She Spies (bad girls gone good) must help a North Korean scientist defect. Luckily, they'll have some help from a retired spy: Queen Marella of Glendora, once Archangel's assistant, now the wife of King Cody of Glendora.  A three-way crossover between AIRWOLF, SHE SPIES, and THE QUEST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Spies

**Standard Fanfic Disclaimer** that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for a little writing practice (your first million words are garbage; the trick is to keep writing to your second million words, when you'll start to improve). All characters will be returned to their original owners, unharmed or at least suitably bandaged. This story is a work of amateur fiction; no harm nor theft of intellectual property is intended. Originally published in the fanzine End of the Rainbow #4, from Neon Rainbow Press.

**Queen of Spies**

by Susan M. M.

a _She Spies/The Quest/Airwolf_ story

Mr. Cross sat at his desk. He looked up at the three women standing in front of him: Cassie McBain, Shane Phillips, and D. D. Cummings. For the umpteenth time since being transferred to ISD's California office, the thought crossed his mind that whatever Washington bureaucrat had code-named this team 'She Spies' was an idiot. There had been women in the intelligence field since before Rahab betrayed Jericho; it was an insult to their memory to act as though these three ex-cons were the first women spies in history. For that matter, the government using the skills and services of criminals in "special probation" agreements probably went back to biblical times, too. Cross knew for a fact that the US government had been doing so since the infamous "Dirty Dozen" in WWII, and probably before. However, the woman they were about to meet would probably be more amused than insulted, Cross suspected.

"What do you know about Glendora?" asked the iron-haired spymaster.

"Topless beaches," D. D. replied immediately. The hacker was the youngest and shortest of the trio, a perky blonde.

"Casinos," said Cassie. Just turned thirty, the con artist was the oldest of the three.

"And a really foxy king," chimed in Shane, an attractive African-American thief.

Shane's assessment of the king's appearance reminded Cassie of something. The blonde asked, "Isn't Glendora the country that held a contest, about twenty years ago, to find a new king?"

"A quest," Quentin Cross corrected, "not a contest. King Charles-Philippe outlived his heirs. Like Monaco, Glendora has a treaty with France. If there is no king on the throne, the country loses its independence and its territory would be swallowed up by France. The last king found a medieval precedent, when most of the royal family was killed by the Black Death, and all knights with any kinship to the royal family participated in a quest to determine which was most worthy to be the new king. With that as a legal precedent, King Charles-Philippe instituted a search, found four Americans who were distantly related to the royal family, and sent them on a quest to determine the new king or queen. Thus American … entrepreneur," Cross chose his words carefully; telling Cassie that the new king used to be in her line of work might give her ideas, "Cody Johnson became King Cody the First of the ancient and royal House of Villaire-d'Estanville."

"Actually, no." Everyone looked up at D. D., and she explained, "Technically, he can't be Cody the First until there's a King Cody the Second."

"Which will be at least a generation, since the heir to the throne is Crown Prince Frederic," Cross re-seized control of the conversation. D. D. had a gift for _non sequitars_ ; it was best to head her off at the pass, if possible. "Queen Marella, the king's wife, was an American scientist. She has six doctorates in widely disparate fields **.** " **{1}** _And could kill a man barehanded seventeen different ways in as many seconds,_ he thought. "She's hosting an international microbiology conference."

The three criminals-turned-spies exchanged glances. After a moment, Shane asked the question on all their minds. "And this interests us how?"

"One of the scientists attending the conference is Dr. Park from North Korea. An expert in the field of germ warfare. He's contacted our agents abroad; he wants to defect."

"So we attend the conference, grab Dr. Park, and run?" Cassie asked.

"Timing will be critical. Park's family is being carefully watched in Pyongyang. We'll have other agents working on getting them out. But if you grab Park too early, security on his family will be tripled; we won't be able to get them, and he'll have no choice but to surrender himself back to Korean authorities."

"And if your Asian team grabs the family too soon?" Shane asked.

"Then Dr. Park's keepers will arrest him, and bundle him off on the first plane home, under heavy guard. You'll have to wait until we get word from our Asian team that his family is safe, and then –- and only then -– do you grab the doctor. And you'll have to do it quickly, before his security escort gets the news."

"So we need to be ready at a minute's notice. Sounds like we may need to improvise when we get the word to go," Cassie said.

"It's what you're best at," Cross acknowledged. "The king and queen are aware of the situation, and have promised us full support." He wondered whether he should tell them that the queen had once been one of the USA's best spies. For the first few years of her marriage, she had combined the duties of Queen Consort with being European Section Chief of the Firm. She wasn't on the Firm's payroll anymore –- at least, he didn't think she was -– but she was probably the best-informed woman in Europe on geopolitical issues. "Any questions? Then go get packed."

* * *

"Anything I should do to help, or just stay out of the way and play dumb?" King Cody asked his wife.

"You could never play dumb, darling," Queen Marella told him. "Just be your usual charming self. We don't need a Minister of Tourism with you on the throne."

"And the more I mingle at the conference and act the role of regal host, the more palace security surrounds the conference, making it more difficult for your defecting scientist to be kidnapped by his own people."

"Why is it I married you for your good looks, yet you insist on having brains?" she asked.

"Just your good luck, _ma reine."_ The king was a middle-aged Black man, still handsome enough to make female hearts beat a little faster. Neither his close-cropped hair nor his mustache had any evidence of white yet. (And if the queen had found the Grecian Formula in his private bathroom, she'd been discreet enough not to say anything.)

He kissed her hand, then her neck. Then he moved up to her cheek and on to her lips. After several minutes of nuzzling, King Cody said, "I know you miss the old days and your old friends, but please, don't get any more involved than you already are. You've done your part. More …"

"More what?" She pulled away from him. "More would be too dangerous? More would be unbecoming the dignity of the crown? More would be too much for someone my age?"

"Too old, no. I've watched you do your _katas_ and I know you're still in great shape." King Cody reached out and ran a hand along her waist. "Great shape. But I would like to avoid a diplomatic incident, and beside, you need to be careful." She looked up at him, her chocolate eyes meeting his. He reminded her. "You missed last month."

"At my age, that's more likely a sign of menopause than pregnancy," Dr. Marella Villare-d'Estanville pointed out. "With five sons, I think I've done my duty in ensuring the succession."

"You, _ma cherie,_ have never failed in your duty. But the boys would love a sister."

"You want a daughter, either we adopt or you carry her."

* * *

Cross raised the queen's hand to his lips. "Your Majesty."

She smiled. "It's good to see you again, Eagle."

"Eagle?" Cassie murmured. She and her teammates exchanged glances.

"Old nickname," Cross whispered. A codename was sort of like a nickname, so it wasn't quite a lie.

"Darling, this is Quentin Cross," the queen introduced him to her husband.

"IADC? SIA? Which pot of alphabet soup?" King Cody asked.

"ISD, Your Majesty," Cross replied reluctantly. "May I present my agents? Cassie McBain, Shane Phillips, D.D. Cummings."

Cassie wasn't sure if she was supposed to curtsy or what. She nodded. Shane and D.D. followed her example; they hadn't been sure of the proper etiquette either.

"It's a pleasure to welcome you to Glendora," King Cody replied. He eyed Cassie speculatively. She reminded him of someone, but who couldn't think whom.

"Any help you need, just ask. The palace guard will be standing by to assist you," Queen Marella told them. "They'll be providing security for the conference."

"Does that mean the palace guard will know who they are?" Cross asked sharply. "I don't like the idea of half your army being able to identify my agents."

"Kinda defeats the whole secret agent bit," Shane muttered.

King Cody smiled at her. The only thing better than a beautiful woman was a beautiful woman with a sense of humor.

Cross threw her a disapproving glance.

"We could set up a password for emergencies," Queen Marella suggested. "That way, the guards would know you're on the premises, but won't know who you are unless you need their assistance. And if Eagle trained you, you probably won't need any help."

* * *

"Honored guests," Marella began, speaking in French with a Parisian accent. "Tomorrow I will walk among you as Dr. Villaire-d'Estanville. But tonight, as queen of Glendora, I welcome you to my country."

She smiled warmly at the crowd. As soon as the applause faded, she repeated her remarks, first in English, then in German. She turned to face her husband.

Cody rose from his throne. He enunciated carefully. Ever after twenty years on the throne, he still spoke French with a decided American accent. His official greeting had been carefully prepared by his staff, and rehearsed with his language coach to memorize the few phrases phonetically.

"Be welcome to my kingdom and my home." He waved his hand at the musicians, who began playing a waltz. "Tomorrow you will share your learning. Tonight, we share music, dancing, and wine. And I claim the first dance," he raised Marella's hand to his lips and kissed it, "with the most beautiful microbiologist at the conference."

He led her off the dais and onto the dance floor. He was elegant in his tuxedo, a red sash with the order of Ste. Marguerite across his chest. Marella wore a sky blue Christian Dior gown. She herself had designed the diamond and blue topaz necklace that graced her neck, and the matching earrings, and commissioned a local jeweler to make them specifically to match this gown. They were alone on the dance floor for a few minutes, until a few brave souls gathered their courage to join them.

After several minutes of Strauss, the band – without pausing for a breath – switched to an instrumental version of Tom Jones' "She's a Lady." The king and queen began to boogie. Some of the dancers stumbled to an awkward halt, surprised by the change in tempo and style. Some bashfully left the dance floor. Others followed the king and queen's example, rocking to the music. More people worked their way out to the dance floor.

A tall, skinny teenager approached Shane. Other than a mild case of acne, he was a handsome boy, with a _café au lait_ complexion –- although the tuxedo and red sash seemed a bit much for someone his age. He gave a slight bow. "I'm Crown Prince Frederic. Welcome to Glendora."

"Thank you, Your Highness." Shane dipped her knees in an uncertain approximation of a curtsy. "Dr. Chloe Millington, Rhodes College."

"Since my father is already dancing with the most beautiful woman present, may I have the honor of dancing with the second most beautiful woman?"

Shane almost turned him down. She was an ex-jewel thief, not a cradle-robber. On the other hand, how often did a woman get to dance with a prince, even if he wasn't old enough to shave yet? "The pleasure's all mine."

Shane danced with grace and dexterity. Clumsy thieves wind up in jail; clumsy spies wind up dead. Prince Frederic had taken ballet and fencing lessons since he was six. He matched her move for smooth move.

"Are you one of my his mother's friends from the old days?"

Shane shook her head. "I've read some of her research papers," she lied, "but I never had the opportunity to work with her in the lab."

"Not one of her laboratory friends. One of her ... other friends, from before she was royal."

Somehow, Shane had the feeling the prince wasn't talking about his mother's friends from medical school or her work as an aeronautical engineer. The boy knew, or at least suspected, that his mother had been a spy, and now he wondered if Shane was a spy, too.

"Sorry, never had the privilege."

Ten minutes later, Shane moseyed her way over to where Cross was standing. She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She took a small sip, then holding the glass in front of her mouth to prevent anyone from reading her lips, she said quietly, "The prince may be a security risk."

"Oh?"

"Apparently he knows what Mom did before she got married, and he wanted to know if I was in the same line of work."

Cross said, "I'll speak to the queen, have her remind him to be discreet."

Shane nodded and drifted off.

Cross glanced longingly across the dance floor. Cassie was lovely in a sea-green gown. He wished he dared ask her to dance, but daren't blow his cover.

A small boy in Spiderman pajamas and fuzzy blue bedroom slippers toddled into the ballroom. Some of the dancers stopped to point at him. He went up to the queen, who was dancing with the Austrian ambassador, and tugged on her dress.

Queen Marella looked down at her seven-year-old. "Ricky, what are you doing out of bed?"

"I want a story, _Maman,_ " His Royal Highness Prince Richard-Alain Villaire-d'Estanville told her matter of factly.

"Didn't Nanny tell you a story, sweetheart?"

"I want you to tell me a story," Ricky insisted.

Her Majesty smiled apologetically at the ambassador. "Excuse me, _bitte._ I need to tuck this one back into bed."

"Of course, ma'am." He clicked his heels and bowed.

Marella picked up Ricky and carried him out.

Watching her from across the room, Cross hastily drained his champagne class and set it down on a table. He exited the ballroom through another door.

King Cody saw Cross leave, less than a minute after his wife did. His dark eyes narrowed, and he nearly stepped on the toes of the elderly science professor with whom he was dancing.

* * *

In the hallway, Cross quickly caught up with Marella and Ricky. "May I help you?"

She smiled. "I don't need any help, but I won't turn down the company." Switching from English to French, she introduced them. "Ricky, this is an old friend of _Maman_ 's, _Monsieur_ Cross. My youngest, Prince Richard-Alain."

" _Bonjour, Sa Altesse_. Or rather, _bon nuit_."

Ricky nodded and yawned.

Marella led the way upstairs to Ricky's bedroom. Cross opened the door for her. The bedroom could have belonged to any young boy. Toys were neatly put away. A stuffed elephant lay on the bed; not having any children of his own, Cross did not recognize it as Babar. Instead of Renoir portraits, on the wall were posters of Noah's Ark, _Balamory_ , and Scooby-Doo. The bookcase was full of Dr. Seuss and other books, both in English and in French. Marella gently tucked him in.

Before sitting down on the bed beside him, Marella whispered instructions to Cross. He nodded.

"Once upon a time, there was a family of animals who lived in a cottage in the forest. A Papa, a Mama, and a Baby. One morning the Mama made porridge for breakfast, but it was too hot to eat. So they decided to go into the forest, to take a walk and pick blueberries, to give the porridge a chance to cool," Marella began.

"While they were gone," Cross picked up where she left off, "a little girl came to the cottage. She knocked on the door, but no one answered. She opened the door and went into the house without permission."

"Shame on her." Marella shook her head. "I hope you wouldn't do anything that rude."

"No, _Maman._ "

"She went into the living room. She sat in the Papa's chair, but it was too hard."

"Like Papa's throne," Ricky interrupted.

"Very like, only not as fancy," Marella agreed. "She sat in the Mama's chair, but it was too soft. Then she sat in the Baby's chair, and it was just right. She sat and she rocked, and she rocked and she sat, and then -" She glanced up at Cross.

"She rocked it right onto the floor and broke it," Cross said.

"The little girl went into the kitchen, and saw the table with the three bowls of porridge. She tasted the Papa's porridge, and it was still too hot. She tasted the Mama's porridge, and it was too cold," Marella told him.

"The Mama's porridge was by the window, so it had cooled down," Cross explained.

"Then she tasted the Baby's porridge, and it was just right. So she stirred some honey into it, and ate it all up."

"Bears always have honey," Ricky murmurred sleepily.

"She went upstairs to investigate, and she found a bedroom with three beds. The Papa's bed was too hard. The Mama's bed was too soft."

"Mama had a featherbed," Cross interjected.

"But the Baby's bed was just right. And after breaking into a stranger's house, and destroying someone else's property and eating their food without permission, she was tired. So she lay down in the Baby's bed and fell asleep."

Ricky yawned.

Marella continued, "After a little bit, the Papa, the Mama, and the Baby came back to their cottage. They were very surprised to find the door open. They went inside carefully and looked around. The Papa said," she looked up at Cross, turning the story back over to him.

"Someone's been sitting in my chair," Cross recited in a deep, gruff voice. "And the Mama said ..."

"Someone's been sitting in my chair. And the Baby said, someone's been sitting in my chair, and they broke it. And he began to cry. The Mama hugged the Baby, and they went into the kitchen. The Papa said," Marella prompted Cross.

"Someone's been eating my porridge."

"And the Mama said, someone's been eating my porridge. And the Baby said, someone's been eating my porridge, and they ate it all up! And he cried again."

"This time the Mama didn't hug the Baby, because she was too busy frowning at all the honey spilled on the table," Cross said. "Then they went upstairs, and the Papa said," he lowered his voice, "someone's been sleeping in my bed."

"And the Mama said, someone's been sleeping in my bed. And the Baby said, someone's been sleeping in my bed, and she's still there. The noise of their voices woke the little girl." Marella paused for dramatic effect. "Then the Papa Lion roared, and ate the little girl up."

"And the moral of the story is, don't go in other people's houses without permission," Cross concluded.

Ricky chuckled softly. "You tell the best stories, _Maman_."

"Good night, my sweetheart. God bless you and keep you safe until morning." She kissed him.

"Good night, _Maman._ Good night, _M'sieu_ Cross." The young prince snuggled under his covers and hugged his elephant.

Marella and Cross left the room quietly. Before returning to the ballroom, she stopped to check on her other sons.

Prince Malcolm lay asleep in his bed. He didn't stir as his mother tiptoed in to kiss his cheek. His room could have belonged to any fourteen year old: posters of soccer players on the wall, a bonsai tree on top of one bookcase and a microscope on top of the other. A guitar stand stood in the corner, with a skateboard propped up against the wall next to it.

Prince Martin sat up as the door opened.

" _C'est_ _seulement Maman_ ," she whispered. "It's only Mama."

His room had twice as many bookshelves as his twin's. _Lord of the Rings_ posters decorated the north wall; a 15th century tapestry of a unicorn covered most of the south wall. On his Louis XVI desk was a very modern laptop. She walked over to the bed, kissed his cheek, adjusted his blanket, and walked out.

Marella paused in front of the next door. "I hesitate to check on Paul."

"Light sleeper?" Cross asked.

"Legos on the floor," she replied. "You ever want to interrogate a prisoner and don't need to worry about the Geneva Convention, get them to walk on Legos barefoot."

Cross smiled. Not being a parent, he made the mistake of not taking her seriously.

Ten year old Prince Paul was sound asleep. Skillfully avoiding the Legos and stuffed Pokemon toys on the floor, Marella kissed him, then quietly left the room.

Cross said, "I have seen you in combat, at high level negotiations, in the royal ballroom, but I have never seen you look more beautiful - never seen you look more right - than when tucking in your sons."

"Motherhood, the toughest job you'll ever love," she paraphrased the Peace Corps motto. "What about you, Quentin, have you ever thought of settling down?"

Cross glanced in both directions. No guards, servants, or microbiologists were in earshot. He confessed, "I have an unprofessional interest in one of my subordinates. Before you married Cody, how did you deal with ..."

Marella interrupted him. "Wild rumors to the contrary, Michael and I were purely professional."

Cross nodded. There had been a lot of rumors about her and Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, and he hadn't been sure how many of them were true.

An awkward silence fell over the pair as they walked down the corridor. A full three minutes later, she said, "I'll tell you, being a spy was a lot easier than being a parent."

"Speaking of espionage and parenthood," Cross said quietly, "do your children know about your former career?"

She automatically glanced to make sure no guards or servants were in earshot before answering. "Frederic and the twins do. Paul and Ricky are too young to be told. Why?"

"Your firstborn danced with one of my agents. He hinted that he knew about your past and tried to ask if she was in the same line of work."

The queen shook her head. "That boy. I don't know whether to be proud of him for spotting an agent or to scold him for being indiscreet. I'll speak to him later."

Cross nodded.

"Which agent did he spot? The one for whom you have unprofessional feelings?" Marella asked.

"He danced with Agent Phillips. The one who keeps sending me back to the rulebooks, to reread fraternization regulations, is Agent McBain."

"Tell me about her," Marella invited.

"Bright. Creative. She's developing into an effective team leader." Cross did not bother mentioning that Cassie had a face and body that would inspire lust in an octogenarian monk.

"Can one of you transfer, so you're not superior and subordinate?"

"There aren't that many possible posts for me, since I was invalided out of field duty." Months of physical therapy and a large amount of sheer stubbornness let him walk normally, but after the bullet he'd taken in the back, Cross was no longer up to the running, jumping, and climbing expected of a field agent. The only way he could stay with the ISD was behind a desk.

"What about her?"

"Transferring isn't an option for Ca- for Agent McBain," Cross explained reluctantly. "You remember Noah Bane of the SIA and Al Mundy?"

Marella nodded. The pair were legendary in the espionage community.

"My ladies didn't volunteer for the ISD. They were offered early release from prison if they'd come work for us," confessed Cross. "The only way out of her current assignment is back to prison."

"And since she's part of your team involuntarily, any relationship might be assumed to also be involuntary," Marella realized.

Cross nodded. "Even the appearance of impropriety could get me fired and her sent back behind bars."

"So what are you going to do about the situation?" Marella asked.

"Damned if I know," Cross confessed.

* * *

Crown Prince Frederic waltzed sedately with the elderly wife of the Postmaster General. As he passed Shane, he smiled and winked at her.

She smiled back.

King Cody watched as his seventeen year old tried to catch the spy's attention. He wondered where her boss was, and when Cross would get back with his wife. He frowned. It shouldn't take that long to tuck Ricky into bed.

"Is something wrong, Your Majesty?" the Postmaster's wife asked.

"No, no, I just lost my step for a second," Cody fibbed. He forced a smile on his face. Then he glanced at his firstborn, and a real smile replaced the forced one.

His boy had good taste in women. Cody might be happily married to a woman who could kill him and his bodyguards without trying, but he'd have to be blind not to notice how beautiful Shane was.

* * *

"Well, Quentin, how did it go today?" Marella poured a cognac for him and handed it to him, then poured one for herself.

Cross took a sip before answering. "My ladies have been keeping a close eye on Park. His guards have been keeping a closer eye on him."

Marella nodded. She'd seen them.

The door opened, and the king stepped in. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"

Marella poured a third drink. "Anyone? No. You? Always."

Cody took the drink from her, then kissed her hand. " _Ma cherie_." He sipped his cognac. "So, I see Dr. Park is still with us."

Cross nodded, but said nothing.

"I thought your girls were supposed to have whisked him away by now," Cody continued.

Cross didn't like the disapproving tone in the king's voice, but had no way to call him on his royal attitude. His wife had no such limitations.

"His women are waiting to hear from their counterparts in North Korea," she pointed out. "Until we know Park's family has been rescued, they can't grab him. After all," she sipped her cognac, "you would do anything to protect the boys."

Cody drank his cognac and said nothing for a long minute. A very long minute. "OK, you got me there."

Cross noticed that Marella didn't say she would do anything to protect the boys. He knew she loved her sons - he'd seen that - but he wondered if the former spy was cold-blooded enough to sacrifice one of her sons if it came to a choice between that and betraying her country. Either of her countries. He decided not to pursue that line of inquiry. Changing the subject, he asked, "Does anyone know where your boys' names come from?"

"Most people have guessed about the twins," Marella replied.

Cross nodded. It was an easy guess that the fourteen year old princes were named for Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.

"But Frederic being named for Frederick Douglass, Paul for Paul Laurence Dunbar, and Ricky for Richard Allen, well, most people either haven't noticed the connection or have forgotten," Marella said.{ **2}**

"We may be Glendoran now, but we want the boys to keep in touch with their heritage," Cody said.

Cross wondered if that was a royal we, or if the king meant himself and the queen.

"Korea is seven hours ahead of us. I wouldn't be surprised if something happens during the night," Marella said.

"If it does, Agent McBain and her team will just have to get out of their pajamas, get dressed, and go to work."

"McBain." Cody snapped his fingers. "That's where I know her from. Your Agent McBain is Scott and Catherine McBain's little girl."

Cross was tempted to lie. "Yes, Your Majesty, she is."

" _Merde_ , the last time I saw her she would have been Ricky's age."

"Friend of the family, dear?" Marella asked.

"Her parents were professional acquaintances of mine. Sometimes business rivals," Cody explained. "She grew up pretty, just like her mama." He leaned over and kissed her. "Not as pretty as you, of course."

* * *

Cassie nodded periodically, pretending to be interested. She hadn't understood a word the speaker had said once he got past 'good morning.' Dr. Park sat three rows ahead of her, six seats to the right. As usual, two goons accompanied him. One sat beside him. The other sat halfway between Cassie and Dr. Park. He wasn't even pretending to pay attention to the lecture – just scanning the audience for threats. Shane was on the other side of the room, also pretending to pay attention. D.D. was out in the hall.

The speaker, a Swiss researcher, droned on about prokaryotes and negative supercoils to DNA in a thick German accent. Suddenly, Cassie heard Cross' voice in her ear.

"Be ready. Our people in Pyongyang just grabbed the doctor's family. Unfortunately, it didn't go quite according to plan. Be ready to move."

"Gotcha," Cassie whispered.

A royal guardsman entered the lecture hall five minutes later. He discreetly approached Park's second watcher, tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered something to him. Then the guardsman escorted Park's guard from the room.

"One goon just left the room," Cassie reported quietly. The person to her left glanced at her for talking to herself. She just smiled and repeated what Dr. Swycaffer had just said about reverse gyrase. She hoped she was pronouncing it correctly.

"Palace guards will take care of him," Cross' voice informed her. "Be ready to move on Park."

Cassie pulled her cell phone out of her purse and texted her partners. "Shane, U need 2 go 2 th bthrm. Take yr purse, leave yr jacket. We want it 2 look like yr coming back. Wait 4 me. Stay out of sight."

"Chk," Shane texted back.

"Deeds, all quiet on the western front?" Cassie asked.

D. D. texted back a confirmation. "Everything is copasetic."

"Houston, we R good 2 go," Cassie texted back.

On the other side of the room, Shane rose and quietly excused herself as she slipped out.

Park's remaining guard glanced back at the door, then at his watch. He continued this for several minutes before nudging Park. The two left the lecture hall.

Cassie waited seventy-three seconds before following them out of the room. She saw the two of them down the corridor. No one else was in sight except for D. D. Cassie smiled to herself; the palace guardsmen had cleared the hallway. "Nice to have friends in high places."

"Excuse me, Comrade Doctor." D. D. stepped in front of Park and his escort, blocking their path. "Irina Petrova, _Moscow Journal of Sciences_. I wish interview," she informed them, speaking English with a heavy Russian accent.

The guard responded in fluent, if slightly ungrammatical, Russian. "Dr. Park very busy. No time for interview."

D. D. protested in the same language, "But I am with the _Moscow Journal of Sciences_." Her tone and attitude made it clear that a Nobel prize winner, let alone a mere scientist from a third world dictatorship, should be flattered to drop everything to accommodate a journalist from the prestigious _Moscow Journal of Sciences._

The guard began, "Dr. Park very –"

Shane tiptoed out of an alcove, a brass vase in her hands. She came up behind the guard and brought it down on his head.

Dr. Park turned around, stunned to see his guard crumpling down to the floor.

"We're friends; we're here to help," D. D. reassured him. Her tone was much gentler, much more comforting, than she had used as Irina Petrova. However, she was still speaking Russian.

"English, Deeds," Cassie reminded her. "We're with the ISD. We're here to rescue you."

"My family?"

"Safe," Cassie told him. "You'll have to skip the rest of the conference. We need to get you out of here."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Mind helping me move him first?"

"We wouldn't want anyone to trip over him," D. D. agreed.

Cassie looked at D. D. "Get Dr. Park to Cross," she ordered. "We'll take care of him and catch up with you."

"Lucky us, we get all the fun jobs," Shane muttered.

"You kill him?" Park asked.

Cassie shook her head. "We're the good guys. We don't do that sort of thing."

"Pity." Park kicked the guard's unconscious body. "Ready go."

D. D. led the scientist off while Shane picked up the guard's feet and Cassie grabbed his head. The pair carried him into a nearby room. After dumping him on the floor, Shane rummaged through her purse. She pulled out a roll of duct tape.

"Feeling MacGyverish?" Cassie asked.

"It'll take him forever to get out of this. And when he does," Shane predicted, "it'll hurt." She gagged him, then bound his wrists and ankles.

Cassie contacted Cross. "D. D. is on her way with Dr. Park. Shane and I are taking care of the guard."

"Good. Rendezvous at the hotel," Cross instructed her.

"Right."

* * *

"Don't run," D. D. advised Dr. Park. "It attracts attention."

"No run," he repeated.

D. D. led him to a back staircase. They went upstairs, and D. D. knocked at the third door on the left.

" _Entre-vouz_ ," a woman's voice replied in French. D. D.'s eyebrow rose as she recognized the voice. She opened the door, ushering Dr. Park in before her.

The queen and Cross were waiting in a small, elegantly furnished parlor. She wore an absolutely simple, absolutely expensive Versace dress. He wore the uniform of a palace guard. An identical uniform lay on a Louis XVI chair.

Park's jaw dropped. He muttered something under his breath in Korean.

"You are excused, _mam'selle_ ," Marella told her in French.

"Return to the hotel; await further orders," Cross said.

D. D. nodded and left without another word.

Marella gestured to the uniform on the chair. "Get changed."

Park sputtered something in Korean, then recovered his equilibrium enough to speak English. "Here? In front of queen?"

"I'm married; you're married," she pointed out. When he still hesitated, she sighed and turned her back on him.

"Get changed," Cross repeated the queen's order.

"I am Korean. No Koreans in Glendoran army."

Cross handed him the shirt.

"We have a fairly large Vietnamese community here, from Boat People who immigrated here back in the '80s, " Marella explained. "Some of them work at the palace."

"I am Korean, not Vietnamese," Park protested.

"To the average European, all Asians look alike," Marella said. "Are you changed yet?"

"Not yet," Cross reported.

"Finish dressing," Marella told him sternly. "I will be leaving the palace in a few minutes, accompanied by two bodyguards. You two. Say nothing; just follow behind me."

As the official hostess of the international microbiology conference, Dr. Marella Villaire-d'Estanville should have been expected to actually attend. However, she was also Queen Consort of Glendora. And as C. S. Lewis had pointed out in A Horse and His Boy, which she had read to Paul just a few days ago, "the Queen's Grace may do as she pleases."

The queen strolled out, two guards following behind her at a respectful distance. No one said a word as she went down to the garage, where a limousine was waiting. They drove down to the docks, where the royal yacht awaited. The queen issued the necessary orders to take the boat out to sea. The two guards accompanying her said not a word.

Once they were away from the dock and out on the Mediterranean, the queen took the helm herself. When they had gone half an hour out to sea, she slowed the boat to a halt. A U. S. Navy aircraft carrier was waiting.

She stopped a safe distance from the carrier. She radioed the ship on a secure channel. "This is Vixen. Seagull, do you read? Over."

"Vixen, this is Seagull. We read you loud and clear. Over."

"Seagull, the package is ready for delivery. Over."

"We'll send the postman to come pick up the package. Seagull out."

"Thank you. Vixen out."

A moment later a helicopter rose from the deck of the carrier. Marella, Cross, and Park watched as it approached the yacht.

"When you reach the U. S., your family will be waiting for you," Cross told Park.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." Dr. Park looked up at the rapidly approaching helicopter. "It can land on this boat?"

"Not exactly," Marella replied.

The helicopter hovered above the yacht, churning up the waves beneath it. A side door opened. A sailor threw out a long rope.

Park swore in Korean. "They want me climb up rope?"

Cross grabbed the end of the rope and showed him the harness attached. "They're going to pull you up." He started fastening the safety harness around Park before he could protest or chicken out. Once it was secure, he flashed a thumbs up gesture to the helicopter crew.

Park was pulled up into the air.

"Mission accomplished," Marella said. "Shall we go back to the palace, or did you want to get in a little fishing?"

"Back to the palace." He glanced at her white Versace dress. "We're neither one of us dressed for fishing."

* * *

"I'm very proud of you," Cross told them at dinner. He was treating them at one of the finest restaurants in Glendora. "You did an excellent job."

The three spies exchanged pleased glances. Cross was normally stingy with compliments.

"I will be flying back to Los Angeles first thing tomorrow morning," he announced. "Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get you tickets on the same flight."

"Oh, darn," Shane said, pretending (not very hard) to be upset.

Cross raised one eyebrow, but otherwise ignored her. "The next available flight to Los Angeles is in three days. I'm afraid you'll just have to stay here until then."

D. D. squealed in delight.

"You're giving us a vacation?" Cassie asked in disbelief. "Here?"

Cross immediately resumed his usually stern demeanor. "A vacation? Me? Nonsense. I simply wasn't able to make arrangements for you to return home for a few days. Under the circumstances, the department will of course pay for your hotel room. Try to stay out of trouble for the next three days, will you? I wouldn't want you to embarrass the department and create an international incident."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Shane promised.

"Casinos," murmured Cassie.

"Beaches," D. D. whispered aloud.

Cross glanced at Cassie, remembering that many of the beaches in Glendora were topless. He wished he didn't have so much paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

* * *

* * *

 

* * *

Footnotes

 **1** Marella's doctorates: French literature, aeronautical engineering, electrical engineering, psychology, microbiology, and medicine.

 **2** The royal children are named for: Martin Luther King (1929 - 1968), civil rights activist; Malcolm X (1925 - 1965), civil rights activist; Frederick Douglass (1818 -1895), social reformer, orator, writer, statesman; Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872 - 1906), poet; Richard Allen (1760 - 1831) bishop and abolitionist.


End file.
